


Just Like Your Father

by Zigster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biting, Blood and Gore, Clever Luna Lovegood, Creature Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Mystery, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Powerful Harry Potter, Scars, Scenting, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Veela, Veela Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: Harry swallows and stares down at Draco, heart racing just at the mere sight of him breathing.He was dead. Draco was supposed to be dead. Harry’s hard-won friend who had made a home for himself inside Harry’s heart was dead. There’d been a funeral, newspaper articles. Narcissa had written him a letter stained with tears. Harry had visited his grave, apologized to the black stone, cried over the freshly turned earth; cursed the sky and all the world for taking yet another person from him too fucking soon.It all had been a lie.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood
Comments: 47
Kudos: 153





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [p1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/gifts).



> This is all P1013's fault, and therefore, it's my gift to her. She went and drew this incredibly [haunting portrait](https://p1013.tumblr.com/post/641213522584453120/you-look-so-much-like-your-father-portrait) of Draco and the story below poured out from my fingertips because of it. I do hope you click on that link to be entranced by him before reading. 
> 
> Endless gratitude and thanks to my beta-buddy, The_sinking_ship for allowing me to leech off of her throughout this writing process, and to Quicksilvermaid, who endlessly brainstormed with me and helped me wrangle my insane thoughts into some semblance of a coherent plot. 
> 
> I will do my best to write out trigger warnings in the chapter notes when necessary. The prologue contains gore and violence.

* * *

The screams come without warning. 

Narcissa jolts from sleep, her heart in her throat. She knows that horrid sound, knows its origin and its pain. Flinging the bed curtains back she tears from the room, running at a speed she hadn’t thought herself capable of until that very moment. The doors to Draco’s room fly open without the need for her wand or even a whisper of a spell. She’s on him in an instant, dragging him back from the broken mirror, through the loose shards scattered across the floor. Their bare feet leave red smears over the ornate carpet as she pulls him away. 

“Draco,” she says, over and over, attempting to console him but finding her own tears mixing with the blood pouring from her boy’s beautiful face. “Draco, please!” 

He thrashes in her grip, continuing to howl an unearthly cry that reverberates through her very bones and shakes the window panes in their sills. Behind them, a candelabra crashes to the floor and a shock of blue flame licks up the gilded frame of an oil painting. Narcissa screams at the fire as if the very timbre of her voice could halt its progress. Draco spasms in her grip at the sound, his fingers digging into her delicate arms like talons on a hawk, clawing at her as if her skin were no more than the flesh of a fish. She holds him tighter on instinct, unwilling to let go, refusing to concede to the madness overtaking her precious son—the only person she has left. 

“Please,” she repeats, the strength in her waning like the sinking moon outside the window. “Please, Draco.” 

The piercing cry of his broken howl is the only answer she receives. 

. . .   
. . .

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_Some years later_

  
“Over here!” Luna calls, her blonde head poking out from a rocky outcropping near the cliff’s edge like a morning dove appearing from its nest. 

“What’d you find?” 

“Cornswallow silk!” 

Hermione sighs, and begins her ascent up to Luna’s newest discovery, which won’t turn out to be a discovery at all, just some moss she thinks is magical on an errant rock. Nevertheless, Hermione gathers a glass vial from her satchel and hands it over to Luna for collection. 

Luna beams with pride. “It’s a perfect specimen.” 

Hermione nods and jots down the notes Luna dictates, biting her tongue with every addendum. 

“We ought to head back,” she says, snapping her book shut. “We’ll lose the light soon.” Hermione did not fancy hiking back to the Apparation point in the dark, no matter how prepared she was with Muggle headlamps and torches. 

Absentmindedly, Luna hums an agreement, then freezes, and turns to face Hermione, eyes coloured with concern. “But we have to get to the ruins.” 

“We can go tomorrow.” 

Luna shakes her head, adamant. “It’ll rain tomorrow.” 

Hermione refuses to believe this because every time she insists they return the next day to see whatever important thing Luna must see today, no matter the occasion or quest, the weather forecast inexplicably and suddenly looks dire. 

“Luna, it won’t rain.” 

“It will. Dean said so on the Wireless.”

“Dean’s including Crete in his weather forecasts now?”

“He always does.”

Hands on her hips, Hermione sighs in the good-natured sort of way someone who has spent any amount of time with Luna Lovegood learns to sigh. She tips her head in acquiescence and is immediately overcome with an armful of a very happy woman, vibrating with joy over getting her way. 

“You’re impossible.” 

Luna kisses Hermione on the cheek, eyes shining and then spins on the spot, her Muggle Safari hat twirling askew on her head. “Not impossible. Just hopelessly positive.” 

“Same thing.” 

Grabbing hold of Hermione's hand, Luna drags them away from the cliff’s craggy edge, and the cornswallow silk, and down into the valley below. 

The ruins are hidden from Muggle view, but the magic that lingers within supposedly keeps the climate at a perfect temperature year-round, ensuring that the surrounding animals and flora never fall ill or meet an untimely end. The wild theories Luna spun of the soil holding magical properties that could perhaps help heal were the only reason Hermione agreed to visit in the first place. 

Luna leads Hermione wherever she fancies, and Hermione follows along without complaint. She takes pleasure in viewing the untouched landscape of the island through the lens of her Muggle camera and happily captures countless images of Luna’s beautiful white-gold ringlets peppered with wildflowers blowing in the wind on film. 

“This should be it,” Luna says, after a half hour of hiking across rugged terrain. She’s breathless, and takes a moment to drink deeply from her canteen before handing it over to Hermione. They’ve come to a stopping point just shy of a rolling stream. Hermione knows instinctively that Luna’s right, she can sense the magic in the air and feel the rolling tension in the ground beneath her feet. The wards of ancient magic surrounding them shimmer in the setting sun like a veil of gossamer curtains billowing in a breeze. When Hermione first notices the rippling sheen of iridescent magic, she gasps. 

“Told you,” Luna sings. She plants another kiss on Hermione’s cheek and skips towards the borderline near the stream, her waist-length hair flouncing along behind her. When she reaches the edge of the water she halts and holds herself very still. Hermione steps up beside her and twines Luna’s hand with hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Luna grins but, otherwise, remains motionless—her eyes closed and her face serene. She inhales deeply and then releases the incantation of a spell her father sang to her as a little girl. An ancient summoning passed down through the generations as a lullaby that will allow anyone singing its tune entry to a long-hidden place. Hermione looks on, mouth open in awe as the gossamer curtains part, leaving a chasm in the landscape. Just beyond the seam lies what remains of an ancient city.

“It worked!” Luna claps her hands, practically vibrating with excitement at Hermione’s side. 

“It worked,” Hermione repeats, astonished. She didn’t think it would work. She had been indulging Luna, as she always did, she didn’t actually fathom that “the ruins” Luna talked about for so long would be… real. Sure, she’d researched with her, planned and prepared with her, rerouted an entire leg of their expedition to include this very island where the ruins were rumoured to be for Luna, but Circe help her, Hermione never actually considered that they’d ever be standing here staring at something Hermione was certain Xenophelius had made up as a bedtime story. 

“Let’s go!” 

Luna’s off before Hermione can even nod in agreement, bouncing down the stone steps of a circular forum that leads to what must have once been a bathing pool for the inhabitants of the city. 

The sun sits low in the sky, slicing thick beams of golden light through decaying columns and caryatids, casting the ruins in a molten glow of tangerine light. Hermione snaps image after image on her Muggle camera, cranking the shutter with eager fingers. Luna is resplendent before her, her soft pale skin tinged pink with the setting sun, the white gold of her hair backlit in a flyaway halo around her lovely, awestruck face. 

Grinning, Hermione lowers the camera and steps forward, picking up Luna’s bangle-covered wrist to tug her close. 

“You’re missing the dusk wisps!” Luna says just as Hermione closes the distance between them, kissing Luna until her willowy arms wrap themselves around Hermione’s shoulders and hold her back. It’s a perfect, solitary moment in a perfect, solitary place. 

The scream comes without warning. 

Hermione and Luna break apart, eyes darting all around them, frantic and panicked. 

“What the—“ 

Another cry interrupts their question. Immediately, their wands are in their hands, their backs to each other. 

“I can’t tell where it’s coming from,” Hermione whispers. “The echo is bouncing off every surface.” 

“He’s in pain.” 

“What? He?” Hermione whips her head around, only to see that Luna has lowered her wand and is standing still, eyes closed. 

“Luna—“ 

“Shhhh,” she says, face turning slowly back and forth, searching, listening. “He’s in pain.” 

Luna points, eyes still closed, and murmurs a spell. A beam of golden light erupts from her wand, pointing far across the forum, towards a looming structure in the distance. The sun has fallen behind the mountains now, leaving slashes of ominous red streaks against a hazy purple sky. Swallowing her nerves, Hermione pulls out her headlamp, straps it across her forehead, and allows Luna to guide the way into uncertainty. 

Hermione hates uncertainty. 

. . .

“Harry!” Luna shouts as she bursts through the door. “Harry, get up!” 

Harry, who hasn’t heard Luna raise her voice for any reason in close to a decade, jolts from his relaxed position on the couch and promptly trips and falls headlong over the coffee table. 

“Fuck!” He bounces on one foot in the general direction of the kitchen. “Luna, what’s wrong?” he calls. 

“Everything! Nothing! It’s all just—hurry!” 

Harry is seriously concerned now. Luna is never this upset.

“Where’s Hermione?” 

“She’s with him!” 

“Who?” 

“Harry, we don’t have time for this. Do you have your wand?” 

He rounds the corner into the kitchen just in time to see Luna throwing a box of ginger mints and a smudge stick of sage into her satchel. Her clothes are dust-covered and sweat-stained, and there’s an angry scrape across her cheek. Harry rushes forward, alarmed at her appearance. 

“What’s happened?” 

“He’s alive!” is all she says before she’s pulling Harry into Side-Along Apparation with a twist of her wrist, and Harry’s world turns black. 

They land hard in a dark valley. Harry looks up, thankful for the full moon as his eyes adjust to the sudden absence of light. He blinks rapidly, regretting that he wasn’t wearing shoes when Luna oh-so forcefully transported him across the island without his consent. 

“I’m barefoot.” 

“Irrelevant.” 

Harry scoffs and transfigures two nearby sticks into a pair of trainers and slips them on. Luna is already jogging down the hill, assuming he’ll follow, no doubt. 

“Luna!” He calls, his concern now shifting into panic. “Is Hermione okay?” 

“Yes. Probably.” 

Harry halts, not soothed by that answer in the slightest. Luna has come to a standstill as well, her head held high and eyes closed. To Harry’s astonishment, she begins to sing.   
  
A ripple of black velvet air shifts and slides open before them, revealing not the quiet, undisturbed valley of greenery and nighttime peace that he thought was in front of them, but a city of grey stone and marble, painted deep purple in the moonlight. 

“Whoa.” 

Luna turns back and grins at him, a mischievous smile he knows well. It lasts only a moment before she’s tugging him along again, the Muggle hiking boots Hermione gifted her for their trip echoing loudly off the hard surfaces all around them.   
  
It takes him several minutes to realise what he’s hearing, but when he does he bends at the waist, a sick feeling rocketing through him. 

“The fuck?” 

Luna is rubbing soothing circles in his back. “I know. I felt it too.” 

“What is that?” 

“He’s in pain, Harry. He needs us.” 

Harry holds tight to his stomach, fearing he’ll be sick, but Luna presses a ginger mint into his palm, encouraging him to take it. 

“It’ll help.” 

He pops the mint into his mouth, rubbing his tongue against it hard, hoping its flavour will soothe his nausea. 

“Better?” Luna inquires after a few moments, and Harry nods, trudging forward in the direction they’d been heading. 

“Why do I feel this way?” Harry asks, his hands pressed hard to his stomach where the pain is greatest. 

“Empathy.” 

Harry grunts, considering this to be a rather thin explanation as he follows Luna to wherever she’s leading him. He focuses his attention on the mint in his mouth, finally feeling his stomach begging to settle. Only then does he notice that the ground beneath their feet is vibrating slightly.

“It’s the earth,” Luna says, reading his mind. 

“Why? What’s happening?” Harry asks, as they ascend the stairs of a temple-like building, its pediment looming large and dark above them. Harry doesn’t feel welcome here at all and he’s sure to tell Luna. 

“We’re not supposed to be here, no,” She agrees. 

“Then why are we here?” 

Harry doesn’t get an answer to this question, either. He hears footsteps running towards them as soon as they’ve entered the main hall and turns in time to see Hermione flinging herself down a grand staircase, face shining in the dim light. 

“I’ve stabilised him,” she pants when she reaches them, pulling Harry in for a quick hug before grabbing hold of Luna’s arms and pulling her back up the stairs. “He’s sleeping—I think.” 

“We still felt his pain,” Luna tells her. Harry grunts in agreement, though still having no idea who they’re talking about and why he’s in pain. 

“I know,” Hermione sighs, shaking her head. “The entire place has been practically vibrating around us since you left. I’m terrified it’ll cave in, but the wards are holding.” 

“The wards will always hold. That’s why he’s here.” 

“What wards? Who is he?” Harry interjects. 

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks Luna, ignoring Harry. They’re hurrying down a narrow hall flanked with torches embedded into columns that light their way as they pass. 

“It’s what makes this place so unique and so peculiar. The wards guard its inhabitants against harm. Even from themselves.” 

“Yet, it’s a lost civilisation.” 

Luna nods, beaming at Hermione. “Exactly! No one knows what could have happened to make them leave.” 

“Great. So, the building is not going to fall in on our heads, right?” Harry adds, which earns him a frown from both of them. He huffs and trudges on, wondering why he’s been dragged along if only to be ignored and glared at. He was perfectly happy with his couch and his raki, planning out their hiking adventure for tomorrow in peace. 

They round the corner and Hermione and Luna come to a skidding halt, leaving Harry to stumble into them at their sudden stop. He starts to apologize but then chokes on nothing but air at the sight before them. Without conscious thought, he steps forward past his two friends. 

“Careful, Harry!” Hermione says. 

Harry barely registers her warning before the large sleeping form of a feral Veela tenses and springs at Harry as soon as he’s within arms reach. 

There’s a screeching, ear-splitting cry as the Veela lashes out at him, its powerful wings kicking up dust and debris from the floor as they expand out wide in the enclosed space. Harry sees the slash of blackened, razor-sharp talons tear through the air, swiping past Harry’s face, yet no blood or pain comes in their wake. 

Harry stumbles backwards, pressing his hand to his cheek. The skin feels whole, unharmed. “What the—” 

The Veela has fallen back in on himself, wings curled in protectively around the human body it possesses. Harry couldn’t see his face, only the ash-blond tangles of overlong hair before the large silver-white wings, soiled with dust, shutters him from view. 

Hermione shoves Harry hard, away from the creature, scolding him while simultaneously searching him for injury. Luna ensures that none of them can be harmed in this place, but Harry can only focus on the Veela in the corner and the pain emanating from him. On instinct, Harry presses his hand to his belly, feeling an echo of those emotions reverberating inside him. 

“Why is he in pain, Luna?” 

Luna smiles at Harry; a sad, heartbroken smile that means she doesn’t have an answer for him. He touches a hand to her arm in understanding before curiosity gets the better of him, and he steps around Hermione to approach the Veela once more. This time, there’s no lashing out, no painful cry, just a prickling of feathers as the creature’s entire body tenses at Harry’s presence, like a string pulled to the breaking point. Without thinking, Harry whispers the incantation to a spell he’d been taught a few years after the war, when he was desperate to forget his grief. He watches the spell take hold as the Veela’s feathers unruffle and the massive wings fold themselves into a more relaxed position against his body, revealing the man beneath them. 

“What’d you do?” Hermione asks quietly behind him.

“It helped,” Harry says, proud that it had worked. 

Luna gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Do it again, Harry.” 

Harry does. This time, the Veela melts further into a relaxed state, his inky black, taloned hands falling from his face and his shoulders slumping into a boneless posture as if teetering on the edge of sleep. He’s on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall with one shoulder, the wings protruding from his back in a position that looks incredibly uncomfortable to Harry. But the stomach-churning ache has lessened, which can only be a good thing. 

Harry moves closer. 

“Careful,” Hermione whispers, cautious as ever. 

Ignoring her, Harry crouches down. He wants to get a look at this man, to show him that they mean to help him, and he can only do that if he can see the man’s face. There’s something there, something covering his skin. It shines in the torchlight and Harry ducks his head closer, reaching out with curious fingers to push the man’s hair back over his shoulder. 

There’s a hiss and a spiking of feathers when Harry makes contact with the man’s skin. Harry sits back, hands up in placation, ready to tell him that they mean him no harm. But then, the man raises his head up to look at Harry with an instantly recognizable quicksilver gaze, and for the second time that night, Harry is rendered speechless. His shock dies in his throat, unable to be voiced. He lands hard on the stone floor as he falls from his balanced crouch, the torch he carried clanking onto the marble and rolling away, out of sight. 

Harry has dreamed of those eyes, their memory has haunted his thoughts for the past four years. He would know that face anywhere. Even half-covered in a grotesque mask made of bone and carved with ironically delicate details that contradict the brutal reality of its horrifying existence on Draco Malfoy’s face. 

“He’s alive,” he says, repeating what Luna had told him in the kitchen.

There’s a consoling hand at his back. He violently shrugs it off and turns, glaring at Hermione. 

“You couldn’t warn me?” 

“Harry—” 

He scrambles to his feet. “Why did you bring me here?” he asks Luna. She does not seem phased by his anger and this only angers him more. He runs his hands through his hair, practically ripping it out at the roots. “Gods, Luna, why!?” 

“You know why, Harry.” Her voice is filled with a sadness Harry didn’t expect, and he blinks at her, inexplicably wanting to cry. 

Behind them, Hermione gasps. They turn to see her hand placed over her mouth, eyes wide and staring at Luna as if betrayed. “You knew,” she says, hiding the words behind her palm. She lets her hand fall. It balls into a fist at her side. “You knew,” she repeats, voice rising. 

Never in his life has Harry seen Luna look indignant, but she does in that moment, with her arms crossed and eyes stern. She holds her head high and stares back at Hermione with a defiance that startles him. 

“This was never just a detour, was it?” Hermione accuses. “You planned this.” 

“You planned this,” Luna retorts, voice flat. 

Shaking her head, Hermione steps forward. “No, you did. You specifically wanted to come here. And your father sings that lullaby when he’s making tea. You knew what this place was, you knew—” Suddenly, Hermione is furious. “Tell me you didn’t know he was here!” She crowds Luna, getting in her face, “Tell me you haven’t lied to me for all these years.” 

Harry isn’t sure who he’s more worried for at that moment, Draco or Luna. 

Luna stands firm. “I did not lie to you.” 

“Then what is this?” Hermione snaps, gesturing to the room around them, with its painted columns, torn up cushions, stained carpets, and Draco Malfoy, feral and forever altered on the floor at their feet. 

“A place to hide.” 

Hermione opens her mouth to shout once again but stops herself before she can; her brilliant mind rushing ahead and leaving her emotions behind. “Wait, hide?”

Luna turns and crouches down to run a hand over Draco’s feathers. “She did this.” 

Harry wants to ask who, but the ‘she’ Luna mentions can only mean one person. The only person left in Draco’s life: Narcissa. 

“How?” he asks instead. 

Luna continues to stroke Draco’s feathers, her golden hair falling in a curtain over her shoulder, hiding her face from view. 

“He can’t harm himself here. He can’t harm others. He’s the safest he’ll ever be,” she tells them. 

Harry boggles at the ignorance of such a statement when compared with the state they found Draco in. “This is a prison!” 

“No, it’s a mercy,” Luna replies, sad and resigned. 

“Who the fuck for?” 

Once again, Hermione tries to console Harry but he steps back, shrugging off her attempts at comfort. How can he allow himself comfort when Draco’s wrapped in a sheet on the floor, barely existing? It does not escape Harry’s notice that he’s yet to speak a single word to any of them. And if he was trapped here to prevent him from doing harm to himself, Harry doesn’t even want to imagine what’s behind that horrible mask. A pang cuts through the mania of his thoughts at the idea of Draco’s achingly beautiful features, so perfectly his own, somehow marred. The crystal clear memory of the last time Harry saw that face, eyes twinkling with promise as he dashed out the door, flashes through Harry’s mind without warning, and it’s as if the wind has been knocked clean out of him. 

Harry swallows and stares down at Draco, heart racing just at the mere sight of him breathing. 

He was dead. Draco was supposed to be dead. Harry’s hard-won friend who had made a home for himself inside Harry’s heart was dead. There’d been a funeral, newspaper articles. Narcissa had written him a letter stained with tears. Harry had visited his grave, apologized to the black stone, cried over the freshly turned earth; cursed the sky and all the world for taking yet another person from him too fucking soon.

It all had been a lie. 

“I’m going to kill her.” 

Two sets of hands immediately descend on Harry, holding him back. 

“She didn’t do this out of malice, Harry,” Luna says. 

Harry practically erupts at such a statement. Magic ripples through the air around them and Hermione and Luna both yelp in shock and spring back from him, eyes wide. 

“Sorry,” he grunts, not feeling apologetic in the least at his unchecked display. “We have to get him out of here.” 

“I agree,” Hermione says, much to Luna’s dismay, judging by her sharp intake of breath. “But we need to plan first. We need to make sure he’s stable and strong enough to make the journey.” 

“I’m not leaving unless he comes with us.” 

Hermione nods, her hands held up in a placating manner. “Yes. I know that. But you need to calm down Harry, or you might just make the building collapse on top of us.” 

Looking up, Harry sees the drastic vibrations have increased. The frescos and columns all shifting violently in place and there are cracks forming along the marble. He’s not sure of the source of such unstable, volatile magic, but he’s certain it isn’t him alone. 

“I’m not doing that,” Harry says.

“I think you are, Harry.” Luna adds, watching a pebble bounce violently off the ground with growing concern. “Hermione’s right.” 

He scoffs. “She’s always right.” 

Hands on her hips, Hermione says, “I’m going to pretend that’s a compliment.” 

. . . 

Hermione allows herself several long deep breaths in order to not send a stinging jinx Harry’s way. After the day she’s had, she’s closer to throttling him than she’d like. They had brought him here to help, not to fly off the handle and break the ancient wards with his uncontrolled magic. Hermione keeps telling him to practice meditation to help with his moods but does Harry listen? No, of course, he doesn’t. 

His response to seeing Draco Malfoy for the first time in close to five years was not unexpected. Hermione had considered the very probable scenario in which Harry would simply walk right out the door from the shock of it all, but she hadn’t predicted this particularly violent reaction. Harry was physically hurt, seeing Draco this way. Hermione hurt too, as did Luna. To see someone they’d all thought long dead now alive and imprisoned like this was not something one could easily digest. It was barbaric, and Hermione wholeheartedly agreed that they absolutely could not leave Draco Malfoy here for one more hour, let alone a condemned lifetime. Yet, seeing Harry react so intensely to the sight of him, so much more pained, as if he too had been wronged in some way, sparked a curiosity that ignited a fire inside Hermione’s mind. 

She turns at the sound of voices. 

“He isn’t speaking,” Harry was saying, his face morose and miserable-looking as he stares at Draco still slumped against the far wall. 

“He seems to have forgotten how,” Hermione tells him. “It’s the Veela.” 

“What about it?” 

“Well, birds don’t normally have the power of speech.” 

Draco’s feathers spike at Hermione’s statement and she cringes in response. “Sorry,” she says to him, and then adds, “he can understand us perfectly well, at least.” 

“It’s freezing in here.” Harry curses as he rips off his hoodie and transfigures it wandlessly into a cloak for Draco. He drapes it backwards over Draco’s shoulders, careful to avoid his wings. Hermione wonders when it had become so cold in the temple. It felt balmy and even humid when they’d entered earlier in the evening. 

She watches Harry, reckless as ever, inch closer to Draco, who shies away, feathers puffing out in warning. Harry hesitates, and licks his lips, before tentatively reaching towards him with his hand. Hermione holds tight to her wand, ready for Draco to lash out again, but the violence she expects doesn’t come. Instead, Harry brushes the back of Draco’s inky black, taloned hand with his fingertips and Draco shudders, his eyes falling closed. Harry smiles, encouraged, and shuffles closer. He runs his hands up and down Draco’s lanky arms to warm him, and Draco melts into the touch, a small sound of pleasure escaping him. Suddenly, the vibrations in the room stop. 

Hermione takes in the abrupt stillness of the place that had been like a live wire since they’d first set foot inside the fabric of the ruins all those hours ago, then back to Harry and Draco. They’re huddled on the floor in an awkward half-embrace, Harry’s hands having stilled on Draco’s arms, their bodies arched toward each other like two half-moons on the precipice of becoming whole. 

Luna’s hand twines its way through hers, and Hermione feels her squeeze reassurance into her palm. Hermione holds tightly back, witnessing something far more intimate than she’d ever expected between two men she’s only ever thought of as hard-won friends. 

“I knew he’d help,” Luna says softly into her ear. Hermione feels the brush of lips against her cheek, leans further into Luna’s side. She wonders what other plans Luna has made for them that Hermione had so thoughtlessly tossed aside in her mind, considering them frivolous. Her entire world view is rearranging itself as they stand there, waiting with bated breath for whatever comes next. 

. . . 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this story (almost) fully written. You can ask Sly, she'll back me up. 
> 
> I'm going to establish a posting schedule of Mondays and Thursdays, which means the final chapter of this story *should* be posted on my birthday, April 30th. Yay!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this chapter.

* * *

. . .  
. . . 

“This is madness!” Narcissa shouts to Xenophilius over the rushing wind as they fly over the hills on a single broom, too small for the two of them. It belonged to Draco when he was a schoolboy; his first Nimbus. 

“Mad, yes. But it's the only way.” 

They come to a hard stop on the soft ground near a gurgling stream. Narcissa tosses the long plait of her blonde hair over her shoulder, taking in their surroundings and wondering how this vacant valley will ever help her son. Beside her, Xenophilius is standing very still, singing a soft lullaby into the hazy, humid air. Narcissa grabs his arm in shock as soon as she sees the fabric of the valley rip open before her, revealing the ruins of a once magnificent ancient city.

“Is this—”

“Yes, my love,” Xenophilius says, raising her arm to kiss her wrist. He cups her hand between his palms, holding tight. “What once was lost is now found.” 

“How did you—” 

“Research. Endless, endless research.” 

They step through into another world, landing on the marble steps of the city forum, surveying the splendour around them with matching expressions of awe. Xenophilius guides Narcissa to a sprawling, gleaming temple along a river, showing her the way as if he were giving her a tour of his own lands. 

“My mother would sing to us about this place at bedtime,” Narcissa says, remembering the haunting lullaby and tales of the utopia far across the sea that she and her sisters loved to listen to as children. She’d thought it a mere fairytale. “No one can be harmed within its wards.” 

“Precisely.” 

Narcissa’s blood grows cold in her veins as all the puzzle pieces suddenly slot into place. 

“You think this is best?” she asks, lip quivering on the words. She looks around her at the marble columns and mosaic floor, hands wringing.

Xenophilius folds himself around her, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She allows the comfort, soaking in the feeling of being held and selfishly never wanting it to end. He pulls back only to place kisses on the long scars running the length of her forearms, bowing his head in reverence to her past sorrow. 

“He didn’t mean it,” she whispers to him, the words echoing in the cavernous space. “He wasn’t himself.” 

“He’s in pain, ‘Cissa,” Xenophilius pleads. “He won’t be able to hurt you here. Or himself. Ever.” 

“He never hurt me,” Narcissa says, voice fierce. Xenophilius wipes away the tears on her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. 

“I know, my love.”

“It’s not his fault.” 

“I know.” 

“Lucius—”

“Shhh,” Xenophilius halts her from speaking further on the topic, and she allows the censorship, not wanting to think of her husband and the torture he’s inflicted on them all, even in death. Yet, the memories come without her consent, flooding her mind with visions of a life lived long ago, before the world came crumbling down around them. 

Lucius, mad with pain, contorting and thrashing on a bed in St. Mungo’s, the wings protruding from his back a hindrance to the healers reluctantly trying to quell his spasms. Draco and Narcissa in the corner, terrified and feeling useless with their grief. 

They’d been warned so many times over, of the madness that could overtake the Malfoy line, of the genes that could taint their so-called ‘pure blood’ and drive them to ruin. Narcissa had once loved the idea of her breathtakingly beautiful husband having Veela heritage. She’d romanticised the idea of him being more than just her partner in life but her destined mate, a true match of love, not just a betrothal amongst patriarchs of two long-established wizarding families. Her love for him always felt like an act of rebellion against her own father. The pride she once held for how intensely she loved Lucius felt like she was spitting in the face of pureblood traditions, rather than bowing to them. 

She’d easily ignored the naysayers. Plenty of families with French ancestry had links to Veela blood, and plenty of families never fell into the madness that sometimes overtook the bird-like creatures. Rumours of mental instability were passed down along with rumours of the extreme power such a heritage could yield. And when her boy was born, fair and blond and just as beautiful as his father, with the same silver eyes and cornsilk hair, she cried with joy over her fortune. Two perfect men, devoted to her and to each other. A family of the highest esteem with an ancient magical ancestry boasting beauty, grace, and a fierce loyalty to round out the picture. 

She had been an utter fool. Beauty and grace, yes, but loyalty and power had certainly skipped a generation. Lucius’ mind was weak, and his loyalty to his wife and son even weaker. She’d anchored herself to a man who destroyed the world she so idolised as a child, and now her son was succumbing to the very same fate. 

“He’s not like him,” she heard herself say. “He was never like him.” 

“Of course not, ‘Cissa.” 

“He isn’t!” She shouted, feeling slightly unhinged at the thought. Everyone always used to say how much like his father Draco was, but Narcissa had seen the break between the two men when Draco turned fifteen. She saw the chasm that bloomed between them that summer and only grew larger as the war loomed and Lucius fell further into the prejudiced ideologies of a demagogue. The darkness that Lucius coveted in his own soul was never reflected in Draco’s eyes, only the darkness that had been inflicted upon him. Draco’s resemblance to his father ended at the length and colour of his hair. This didn’t stop people from flinging you look just like your father at Draco like an Unforgivable every chance they could. If Narcissa could have protected Draco from such a fate she would have, she would protect him against anything—even himself. 

Nodding into Xenophilius’ shoulder, she hears herself agreeing to his plan. They will bring Draco here and set him up in the beautiful temple on the river with Mipsy for his constant care. 

“We must visit him,” she says, adamant. 

“Yes.”

“Every week.” 

“Every week,” he repeats her words. She doesn’t know if he’s placating her but she accepts the consolation at its face value, needing to believe him, even if it’s a lie. 

“And we’ll continue to search for a cure.” 

“Of course. Always.” He presses his lips to her hair. 

“Always,” she echos, feeling hollow even as she says it. 

“He’ll be safe here, ‘Cissa. He will.” 

She nods again. Safe. The one word she holds onto with her last remaining strength. She’s willing to endure anything as long as he’s safe. 

. . .   
. . . 

  
Harry can’t bring himself to move. He knows he should; knows he should sit back and give Draco some space, allow him time to acclimate to the sudden invasion of his horrid prison where he’s been left to rot, but he can’t move. 

He wishes Draco would speak or even acknowledge him beyond staring at him with those large, glassy eyes that shine like silver and hold his gaze with unnerving attention. He hasn’t seen Draco look this withered and haunted since sixth year, since he witnessed these same eyes looking out at him from a cracked, faded mirror with tears streaked beneath them, and instead of offering to help someone in pain, Harry lashed out. 

Harry has no desire to lash out now. He only wants to help. He wants to help figure out why someone he long thought dead and buried is alive and sequestered in an ancient fairytale land, left alone and in pain. 

“So much pain,” he hears himself say, only to see Draco flinch in response. 

It breaks the moment between them. Draco looks away, retreating into himself. He pulls the cloak around him tighter and shifts against the wall, one large wing extending to hide his face from view. Harry halts its path, then smooths down the ruffled feathers with a gentle, sure touch—an apology in a gesture. 

“Don’t hide.” 

Draco’s shoulders spike, his eyes fierce and brimming with tears. Harry continues to stroke his feathers, feeling useless. 

“We need to get him out of here,” he says to Hermione and Luna without looking away from Draco. 

“We know.” 

“He needs St. Mungo’s.” 

This is, apparently, the wrong thing to say because as soon as the words leave Harry’s mouth Draco is rearing back as if burned, crying out into the cavernous space. As quickly as they stopped, the walls begin to vibrate again, sending an ominous shiver down Harry’s spine. He grits his teeth, feeling the shift of magic within his very bones. Something is most definitely wrong. 

There’s a sudden crash behind them. 

“Shit!” Harry shouts, jumping out of the way of a falling bit of marble. “It’s breaking.” 

“The wards!” Hermione calls, “They’re not holding.” 

Harry springs forward, grabbing Draco round the middle, and drags him away from the crumbling wall, Draco screeching his discontent as they go. Draco stumbles as they run, but he runs nevertheless, and Harry holds onto that reassuring fact while they flee. Massive booms like cannon fire sound behind them as the columns fall this way and that. Harry casts Protego after Protego and hears Hermione and Luna do the same, dodging stray bits of stone with each running step. 

They burst out into the night in a cloud of marble dust, stumbling down the temple stairs only to land in a heap at its base. When Harry looks back, he sees the pediment violently crack and fall inward, collapsing onto the mouth of the opening they’d just run through not seconds earlier. 

“Fuck,” he says, chest heaving. He’s on his back, leaning on his elbows as he looks up at the literal ruin they’ve made of an ancient temple which, according to Luna, was supposed to be indestructible. Draco is flung across Harry’s body, head buried in his neck, his wings spread out over all three of them. He’s protecting them. Harry grins down at Draco’s messy head, feeling bewildered and a little punch-drunk at the realisation. He flops back onto the ground, and heaves a relieved sigh only to choke on the dust-filled air a moment later. 

“Fuck!” he says again, wiping his eyes. Luna quietly casts a Scourgify and Harry feels the dust disappear from his face. He grins at her in thanks. 

“Fuck, indeed,” Hermione agrees, looking up at the mess of the temple. 

“The rest of the city is okay,” Luna points out. 

Harry looks over to see her staring out beyond the forum in the distance. All the other buildings are still standing, and the vibrations of ancient magic in the ground feel stable beneath him. 

“Still, I’d rather not experience a repeat of whatever the fuck just happened,” Harry says, voice raw from the dust. 

“Yes,” Luna agrees, crawling out from under Draco’s wing and casting another cleaning charm as she comes to stand. “That was not pleasant.” 

. . . 

Coughing into her fist as debris settles around them, Hermione scoffs at Luna’s assessment of their current situation. Considering the havoc they’ve managed to wreak within an hour of stepping foot in this ancient place, not pleasant is a bit too meek of a phrase. 

“Understatement,” Hermione says, stepping up to Luna, scanning her body for any sort of injury, but they’re all remarkably sound, another indication that the wards are still (mostly) in place. She squeezes her hand, a quick gesture of affection, before turning back to Harry and Draco, who remain on the ground, though Harry seems to not have a say in the matter. 

Draco’s wings are held wide, despite Hermione and Luna having freed themselves from under them, and his body is tense as a spring about to snap over Harry. Hermione looks down at him, brows furrowing with worry. Harry shrugs back at her, seemingly at a loss. He brings an arm up to stroke at one of Draco’s wings, but all that does is cause his feathers to spike and his shoulders to hitch higher, his arms wrapping tighter about Harry. 

Luna crouches close to them and coos at Draco, a soft gentle trill of a sound that Hermione has never heard her make before. 

“That’s it, Draco,” she soothes, cooing once again. Draco’s shoulders slowly unfurl from their taut state at her bird-call. “Harry, do the spell again.” 

Harry blinks at her and then says, “oh, right,” and whispers the relaxing incantation to Draco’s head, still buried in Harry’s neck. The reaction is instantaneous. Draco goes limp, his arms giving out beneath him, and he collapses atop Harry in a puff of marble dust. 

“Oof!” Harry says, then laughs lightly. “Kay, that worked.” He rolls Draco slowly to the side, mindful of his wings, and extracts himself from underneath him, only to pull him up by the torso a moment later. 

“There we go,” Harry says, bringing Draco to stand on unsteady legs as if he were a newborn fawn. Harry takes the time to right Draco’s conjured cloak. Draco’s eyes emote a myriad of emotions: fear, anger, confusion. None of them are reassuring to Hermione but they’re out of the temple, and Draco’s standing, not howling in pain, and capable of understanding them. That’s all she can ask for at that moment. 

She pulls Luna aside, a thought occurring to her. “What happens when we take him out of this place?” 

“Not sure.” 

“That is not comforting,” Hermione hisses. 

“We can’t leave him here.” 

“Of course not.” 

“So, then we cross that bridge when we come to it.” Luna leans in and kisses Hermione’s dusty cheek. 

Hermione sighs and hangs her head, weary beyond measure. Luna’s right, Hermione knows she’s right, but that doesn’t stop her from catastrophising every possible scenario that could happen as soon as they step through that gossamer curtain between worlds and leave the wards behind. There’s a strong hand in hers and Hermione looks up to see Luna, sure-footed and resplendent before her, covered in dust and sweat and glowing in the moonlight. It’s the easiest thing in the world to follow along with her when Luna looks at her that way and so, Hermione does. 

. . . 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you Monday!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this chapter.

* * *

  
. . .   
. . . 

  
“You can’t mean that,” Narcissa says. “There has to be an alternative.” 

The healer shakes his head, looking not the least bit sympathetic towards Narcissa’s situation. She wants to glare. She wants to threaten this man’s life, his children’s lives, but she doesn’t. She holds back, keeps her head high and her shoulders straight, and nods to him in acceptance of his damning diagnosis. Then turns towards her son, strapped down and covered to his neck in a white sheet and sits at his side, ignoring the healer’s very existence. If he can’t help her son, he means nothing to her. 

She does not thank him and the man sees himself out. She places a hand on Draco’s arm, squeezes oh so gently, bows her head, and cries. 

. . .   
. . . 

The three of them have a rather perplexing conundrum on their hands, one Harry is certain Hermione never considered planning for despite her endless lists and lengthy itineraries. The conundrum being the transport of a (somewhat) feral Veela across an entire island via Apparition. 

“We can’t risk it,” Hermione says, her hand to her chin, face pinched with concern. “He can’t even consent to a Side-Along.” 

Behind them, Draco huffs. 

“He didn’t exactly consent to us barging in on his prison either, but freeing him from that place doesn’t leave me feeling guilty, Hermione,” Harry adds, eyeing Draco over her shoulder. 

She agrees. “Still, we need to think.” 

Harry glances back again at Draco who’s sitting morosely on a small mound of dirt that Luna shaped into a seat for him, complete with night-blooming jasmine growing along the footrest. She said the scent would ease his nerves. Despite his stillness, his haunting eyes still look out at them from behind the unsettling mask of carved bone. Harry has no doubt that he comprehends their every word. When he sees Harry staring, he locks eyes with him, the eagerness of his gaze intensifying. Harry can’t help but move closer, as if those silver eyes were trying to communicate with him through sight alone. 

It only takes a second, but as soon as Harry is within arms reach, Draco lunges. He grabs hold of Harry’s arm and pulls him in, tucking Harry’s head just under his chin as his wings spread out wide and full at his back. 

The shocked gasps of both Hermione and Luna sound behind them as Draco bends at the knee and leaps from the ground in one smooth motion up into the sky, his impressive wings pressing down on the humid air of the night with surprising force. The power Harry feels emanating from Draco as he holds him tight and close to his body is staggering. He’d barely been able to stand in the temple. 

Harry curses as he looks down, the outlines of Hermione and Luna already nothing more than tiny specks frantically waving at him from the blackened landscape below. 

“Draco! Holy fuck.” 

_Eloquent as ever, Potter_ , Draco says, and Harry turns his head upward to look at Draco’s face, alarmed at hearing him speak. But the mask is still in place and those silver eyes of his stare out ahead of him, and Harry wonders if he somehow imagined the words. 

“You can talk?” he asks. 

Draco looks down at him, his eyes calculating and somehow amused. _No,_ he hears but Draco’s jaw does not move and no sound comes from behind his mask. _But I know you can understand me._

Harry boggles, realising that Draco’s voice is only in his mind. 

_Tell me where to go,_ Harry hears again, and he shakes himself as a shiver runs down his spine. 

Maybe it’s the chill of the thin night air this high above the ground, or the sensation of Draco somehow being inside him and Harry not minding, but the thrill of flying quickly encompasses any semblance of Harry’s self-preservation. He manages to swallow his initial unease and directs Draco to where they’re staying on the island. Harry finds himself very thankful that the inhabited areas of Crete peppered between its many mountains are easily seen from above. 

The pressure of wings flapping down hard behind him lessens as Draco coasts on a wind current and soars closer to the ground, allowing Harry to easily spy the streetlights and the warm glow of the windows lit up from below. Harry points to where he’s almost certain their rental flat is on the far side of the island, recognising the jetty just beyond its front gate. Draco swoops down low and smooth towards the rocks, landing softly against the earth with only a slight bend to his knees. 

Draco doesn’t let Harry go when they’re on solid ground. Instead, his arms tighten their hold, and his cheek presses gently against Harry’s hair. Harry assumes this is some sort of bird-like instinct and doesn’t move to stop him, though he feels rather awkward the longer they stand there. 

“Harry!” He hears Hermione call, and he shifts in Draco’s arms. Draco releases him, his shoulders tensing at the sound of Hermione’s voice. His wings slump and he sulks off toward the jagged rocks of the jetty, back turned to the approaching women. 

“Oh thank Circe, Harry.” Hermione flings herself at him, holding on tight. A second set of arms joins the first as Luna, much more gently, embraces the both of them, her soft, lavender-scented hair tickling him just under his nose. 

“This is nice,” Luna sighs, sounding sleepy. 

“He kidnapped you,” Hermione whispers into his ear. “I managed to cast a tracking charm on you before he got too far.” She pulls back, looking him over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Hermione.” 

“Yes, but—”

“Hermione, it’s okay. Draco brought him back. We’re all safe and sound,” Luna says, petting Hermione’s hair. Harry watches as Hermione relaxes into Luna’s touch and is grateful for his friend’s ability to quell Hermione’s near-constant anxieties. 

Harry turns, making sure Draco is still standing nearby. The moon, freshly risen, hangs low in the sky, sending a cascading shimmer of silver light across the water. Harry can’t help but compare the glow of the water’s sheen to the colour of Draco’s hair, which so closely matches the shade of his wings. His fingers twitch at his sides, wanting to feel the shiver of Draco’s feathers under his touch once more. The thought startles him and Harry clears his throat, running his hand through his own hair instead. 

“I’m starved,” he says, à propos of nothing. “Let’s head inside. I’ll cook.” 

  
. . . 

Luna looks out on the moonlit sea from the balcony of their rental flat, head tilted to the side like an adorable and inquisitive crup, surveying the two men below. “They’re not coming inside.” 

“Yes, I spotted that,” Hermione says, handing Luna a cup of tea with a splash of firewhisky. They’re both freshly showered, hair twisted up in towels and clothed in matching silk robes. It’s been nearly an hour since Harry suggested they head in. 

Luna smiles at Hermione in thanks as she takes the cup from her and eagerly sips. 

“So much for Harry cooking for us.” 

“I’m sure he’ll cook when he’s able.” 

Hermione grins at Luna’s hopeful perspective. “What do you think they’re doing?” She asks, feeling the grip of tension in her shoulders. 

“Talking, of course.” 

Blinking in surprise, Hermione looks at Luna sideways. “Draco can’t talk.” 

Luna nods and takes another sip of her tea. As if that explains things. 

“Luna, he’s forgotten how. You saw him.” 

Another nod, another sip. 

Hermione huffs. “Luna, what on earth could you possib—” Hermione cuts herself off, her brain running ahead again towards a conclusion. Beside her, Luna smiles into her teacup. 

“Do you think he’s—”

“I do,” Luna says. 

“Veela can—”

“Yup.” 

“Wow.” Hermione slumps against the railing, eyes unfocused in the middle distance, contemplating the possibilities of a feral Veela being able to communicate mind-to-mind with someone else. But that person would have to be rather intimately connected to that particular Veela, and isn’t that curious? Harry and Draco (to Hermione’s supposed knowledge) were just friends before his untimely death. She turns her head, squinting at the two men on the jetty, brow furrowed. 

“Luna.“ 

“Mmhm?” 

“You knew Draco best back then.” 

“You could say that, yes.” 

“Do you know if—were Harry and Draco—do you think they ever. . .” she trails off, contemplating the correct way to word her question. 

“Fucked?” Luna offers and Hermione jerks back from the railing, smacking Luna on the shoulder. 

“Rude,” she scoffs, but then sobers. “You think, though?” she asks, her body a sudden live-wire, reassessing everything she’s ever known about Harry and Draco post-war. 

Luna shrugs in response to Hermione’s eager question, and Hermione slumps again, though her mind won’t settle anytime soon with this new theory. 

She taps a finger to her lips, considering. “Draco protected all of us, but flung himself over Harry.” 

Luna nods, sagely. “That he did.” 

“He flew Harry back here.” 

“He did.” 

“He held him afterwards like a precious thing. We both saw it.” 

“We did.” 

“Luna, this is infuriating, stop repeating everything I say.” 

“But I agree with everything you say.” 

Hermione huffs out a laugh and pushes off from the railing. She needs another drink. 

. . . 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you all Thursday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: gore/blood

* * *

. . . 

“How are you doing this?” Harry asks, boggling at the fact that Draco can communicate with him in this way. 

Draco doesn’t answer. He simply shrugs. The movement looks awkward on him since his wings shift with his shoulders. Harry shakes his head and begins to pace. Draco crosses his arms and leans against a lamppost, one leg bent at the knee, foot resting against the base. He’s tied the cloak Harry gave him about his waist with a bit of fisherman’s twine and it hangs like a tunic over his thin frame. Under the golden lamplight, he looks like a fallen angel from one of Mrs Weasley’s Muggle romance books that no one is supposed to know she reads, let alone lends Harry once she’s finished them. 

The silence between them grows and every time Harry turns, he catches sight of Draco, posed with a casual grace with the wild waves of Crete crashing behind him. It’s unnerving—knowing he’s here, alive and breathing, within arm’s reach. The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck haven’t settled, his mind whirling a mile a minute as he contemplates what the hell happened to Draco to land him in such a prison, especially by the hands of his own mother, a woman who Harry knows from first-hand experience loves Draco more than the world itself. He can’t bring himself to believe she’d be capable of such a thing. 

Another circuit, another passing glance at Draco. He still wears his hard-won confidence like an amour, Harry notes. No amount of time sequestered in an ancient prison could take that away from him, and Harry’s glad of it. The mask, on the other hand, is disturbing.

_Stop pacing, you’re drawing attention._

Harry snorts and looks around at the remoteness of their location. “From who?” 

_Whom._

“Your wings aren’t attention-grabbing enough, then?” 

_My wings aren’t visible to Muggles._

This information makes Harry pause. “Interesting.” 

Draco raises his chin just a tad higher. Harry takes that to mean he agrees. He then resumes his pacing, ignoring Draco’s request. He needs to think and to think, he needs to move. 

“You were in so much pain,” he says, running a hand through his hair. 

_Correct._

Harry halts and realises that he’s spoken that thought aloud. “Shit. Sorry.” 

_For what?_

“I dunno.” Harry folds his arms across his middle, feeling the ghost of the nausea that had overcome him earlier. He looks up, concerned for Draco. “But wait, you’re not in pain now?” 

Draco shrugs again, his wings hitching with the movement. 

_It comes and goes._

“What’s different?” 

Another shrug. 

“Draco, we can’t help if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.” 

This time, Draco laughs, or at least Harry thinks he does. A harsh bark of a cry erupts from behind his mask as Draco throws back his head. He steps away from the lamppost and moves towards Harry in one fluid motion, crowding him, his wings curling in around his back, cocooning them and blocking out the hazy lamplight. Harry stands firm, not willing to back down from whatever this is, and looks up at Draco, chin held high. 

“Trying to intimidate me?” Harry asks. 

_Perhaps._

“Having fun?” 

Draco quirks an eyebrow. _Not yet._

It happens so quickly, Harry barely registers the movement. In the blink of an eye, Draco vanishes his mask and swoops down, his mouth latching onto Harry’s neck and his teeth sink in deep. Harry gasps out a shocked breath, feeling every nerve ending in his body spark with pain, and he shoves hard against Draco’s chest, sending both of them careening back from each other. He feels a sickening rip of his own skin as Draco’s teeth take flesh with them and he curses loudly as he falls onto the uneven ground, skidding his hands against the granite and pebbles. 

“Fuck!” He presses a hand against his throat, applying pressure. There’s blood. So much fucking blood. “Draco, what the fuck?” He shouts. 

The nausea hits him then, the overwhelming nausea from earlier comes back to him like a wave crashing over the shoreline and he bends at the middle, afraid he’ll be sick. He can hear footsteps running up behind them and is relieved when he sees Hermione and Luna come into his line of vision, which has gone blurry. He must have lost his glasses in the scuffle. 

“Fuck,” he repeats, wandlessly Accioing his glasses. They fly into his hand and he shoves them back onto the bridge of his nose before searching out Draco, who is curled into himself on the rocks, his wings hiding his face from view. 

“What happened?” Hermione asks, her hands hovering over Harry’s neck, healing spells flying from her wand as she assesses the damage and stems the flow of blood. 

“He bit me,” Harry rasps, realising his voice has gone hoarse. 

Hermione looks alarmed. 

“Fuck!” he says again, just for the sake of saying it. 

Harry hadn’t expected it. Draco wasn’t a threat to him, hadn’t been, not since the war. Not even before the war. At worst, Draco had been a nuisance during school, an ignorant bully, but in the years following his trial, Draco had simply become Draco: a man Harry enjoyed getting a drink with every now and again. They’d play pool in Muggle pubs and Harry would show him things like how to use a Muggle mobile and how to open up a Muggle bank account. They were friends. 

Harry had always been a little bit proud of himself for befriending Draco—properly chuffed that the two of them had successfully put their past behind them. He’d considered it a sign of his own maturity, and that the sessions with his mind healer were leading to progress in his everyday life. And if, after a few pints, Harry would find himself watching Draco from across the pool table with more than just a look of friendly pride, but instead, a hunger. Well, he liked that too. He liked the way it felt, that tingle of attraction licking through his veins. It was warm, like the burn of firewhisky on his tongue, and Harry eagerly soaked in the sensation whenever it came over him, despite never being quite drunk enough to act on it. 

Draco often did the same. He’d strike in a pretty pose over his cue stick, hovering low and lean over the red felt of the table, hair dangling past his shoulders and his eyes locked with Harry’s. He’d pull his arm back and shoot without even having to aim, sinking the ball he wanted every time. It infuriated Harry, and also made him harder than the pool stick in his white-knuckled hands, watching Draco do that. Harry would bite back his arousal and shake his head on a forced laugh, calling the bartender for another round because that was what they _did_ : they played games with each other. 

That’s what Harry thought they’d been doing. He thought Draco was challenging him with an innocent flirtation, a dare, like how it was before. Circe, how wrong he’d been. 

“Harry, you have to let me look,” Hermione says, and Harry removes his hand from his bloodied neck. She hisses at the sight of it and Harry winces, figuring what it must look like. 

“That’s going to scar,” she says, sounding frustrated. “I don’t have enough Ditanty.” 

“It’s fine,” Harry grunts. 

“It’s most certainly not fine.” 

Harry stands and steps towards Draco, ignoring Hermione’s protests not to move as blood drips from his fingertips. It stains Draco’s feathers as Harry shoves aside his wing, revealing his maskless face to Harry for the first time. Draco looks up, eyes wide and filled with tears. 

All the wind leaves Harry’s lungs in an instant. He breathes out Draco’s name soundlessly and sits down hard on the rocks, his knees having given out on him. What the mask had once covered is now visible under the lamplight, and what Harry sees breaks something inside him. He feels it happen, a clean snap right through his heart. 

There’s a gash. A long, jagged slash that starts at Draco’s right cheekbone, just under his eye, and runs the length of his face, through the far side of his mouth. It gives Draco’s expression a sort of pulled quality, like a knife dragged through treacle. It’s as if the sneering smile of his youth has now been permanently painted over his adult face, his aristocratic features made imperfect in some horribly ironic twist of fate. It’s jarring in the extreme, like seeing a slice cut through the Mona Lisa, or the shattering of a stained-glass window. Its violence shouldn’t exist on such a face, and yet, Harry can't help but stare, overcome by what it represents.

“Draco,” he says again, voice rough with emotion, “what did you do?” 

. . . 

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, except angst.

* * *

. . . 

Hermione could kill Harry, she really could. He’s always been a bit of an idiot, but it’s truly shocking to realise just how much of a daft prick he can actually be, considering the man brought down Voldemort at seventeen. Why on earth would he ever let Draco get that close to him? Turning that line of questioning on herself, she wonders why she and Luna ever thought leaving them alone together was advisable? The answer seems obvious enough, considering Harry can usually handle things, and Draco’s little flight of fancy earlier hadn’t ended in bloodshed. She curses her own idiocy at letting this happen as she runs towards Harry’s fallen form on the rocks, wet hair slapping against her shoulders and bare feet stinging from the harsh pavement. Draco’s a cowering mass of feathers and limbs just beside him and she ignores him in favour of assessing Harry’s wound. 

She hisses, seeing how deep the bite is, and curses once again. Draco’s no better than a feral animal judging by this bite. No matter how well they all grew to know Draco after the war, and how generous and good-hearted that man turned out to be, that version of Draco no longer exists. And if it does, he’s currently trapped inside the mind of a creature that’s had years to alter Draco’s state of being. They’d been fools to trust him. Utter fools. 

Harry’ stands and stalks away from her before she can do much more than stop the bleeding and send a disinfectant charm his way. 

“Harry,” she calls, but he’s shoving at Draco with bloodied hands, pushing aside his wings, revealing his face and suddenly, everything stops. 

Hermione watches as Harry sits down hard on the ground at Draco’s feet, all the fight leaving him in an instant. She sees Draco peering up at him, broken and small and horribly scarred. Clasping a hand over her mouth, she holds in a sob at the sight of him, reconciling the posh, prim, and pristine man she once knew with the one she sees before her now. 

“Draco, what did you do?” Harry asks, his voice a shattered, terrible thing, and it cuts Hermione to the quick just to hear it. 

In a flash, Draco is standing, wings spread, eyes dark, and teeth bared as he leans down over Harry. Hermione scrambles to her feet, holding him at wandpoint before she can even blink. 

“Draco,” she warns. He ignores her. 

Harry quickly gets his feet under him, hands held out in a placating gesture as he stands, his wand nowhere to be seen, but Hermione knows better. Harry has been able to cast wandlessly since he was nineteen. 

Draco makes a fierce picture before them: bloodied teeth, black nails like talons, practically hissing with his anger as he glares at Harry. Hermione feels useless standing just behind Harry’s shoulder, completely overlooked by the pair of them, save for Draco’s eyes darting every now and again to the wand in her hand. 

The waves crash against the rocks, sending up sea spray, and the wind whistles past their ears so loudly, it takes a moment for Hermione to hear it, but eventually, she turns, and yes, there, caught on the breeze is a song. Familiar and yet indistinguishable, being sung slightly off-tune. 

A mewl, which sounds so much like sorrow that Hermione wants to cry in sympathy, causes her to spin back to find Draco curling in on himself, taloned hands covering his scarred face. Harry’s eyes dart to where the song is coming from and shouts, “Luna!” before crouching at Draco’s feet in an attempt to console him, only to be shoved backwards by one of his wings. Harry stumbles but remains standing. 

Draco flicks his head up from his hands, pinning Harry with his preternatural gaze. A suspended moment of understanding seemingly passes between them, and Hermione wonders if what Luna said is actually true: that they can communicate without words. 

Harry abruptly stomps his foot and growls, “Fine!” 

Hermione blinks at him, her number of concerns growing by the second. 

There’s a gentle hand on Hermione’s shoulder, giving her a squeeze of reassurance. Hermione sighs and places her hand over Luna’s, relief flooding her along with the melody of Luna’s lovely song. In one hand she holds a bundle of burning sage, and in the other, a necklace of amber beads. The song she sings flows over all of them like cool, running water. It sends shivers down Hermione’s spine. When Luna reaches Draco, she swirls the sage smoke over his feathers, and their spiked, agitated appearance settles under the influence of the herb. She gently lays the necklace over his silver-white head. It rests heavily on his shoulders and he slumps with their weight. 

“Something to cleanse and something to soothe,” Luna says after she’s finished her tune. 

“Aren’t those for teething babies?” Hermione asks, referring to the necklace. 

Luna nods. “And misunderstood, emotionally unsettled Veela.” 

“Right.” 

“We can bring him inside now.” 

Harry and Hermione exchange a look over Luna’s shoulder, wondering if they heard her correctly. 

“That song is meant to lull Veela to sleep,” Luna says with an encouraging bob of her head. She walks over to Draco and guides him to stand with a hand to the back of his elbow, smiling at him encouragingly. “There now, Draco. We’ll keep you safe.” 

Draco simply stares at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused. 

“Did you drug him?” Harry asks. Hermione tilts her head, wondering if there was more to the herb bundle than she first suspected. Harry scratches the back of his neck in thought, then hisses when he comes too close to his wound. 

“Drugged is a strong word, Harry. And besides, entering an altered state of mind can do wonders for one’s outlook on life.” 

Hermione and Harry lock eyes over Luna’s shoulder, eyebrows raised in mirrored looks of bewilderment. 

They slowly make their way off the jetty and through the front gate, Luna guiding Draco with gentle coos and soft hums of the melody she’d sung to him earlier. To Hermione’s astonishment, Draco goes willingly, nodding his head along with her words, and at one point, Hermione spies a little smile at the scarred corner of his mouth. His right cheek dimples with the gesture, giving him a roguish appearance, as if he were a pirate Luna had lured into shore with her siren song. 

Despite the turmoil and violence of the day, Hermione finds herself grinning at that thought as they head inside. 

. . .   
. . . 

Narcissa is startled by a hand on her shoulder and she jolts out of her slouch at her dressing table, eyes wide. 

“My love,” Xenophilius says, coming to his knees before her. “You’ve been crying.” He brushes a thumb over her cheek. 

She crumbles at his kindness and leans into his touch. “Draco,” she says, voice hitching. 

Xenophilius pulls her into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Shhh,” he soothes. “Shhhh, my love.” 

“He’s not getting better.” 

“He’s not getting worse,” Xenophilius offers. Narcissa shoves him, glaring. 

“How is that any consolation? He’s an animal!” She pushes back the chair from her dressing table and moves to the window to look out the warbled glass. The Manor grounds are covered in a layer of frost. The trees bare and grey in the distance. “He’s just like his—” she bites her tongue before she can finish. She bites so hard she tastes the metallic tang of copper in her mouth and hangs her head. 

“Mipsy is with him. She won’t let us down, ‘Cissa. I promise.” 

Narcissa tuts. “A house elf. What was I thinking—”

“A loyal house elf. Their magic is quite clever.” 

“What good is clever magic if it can’t heal him?” She tugs on her sleeve, itchy in her own skin. “I feel useless,” Narcissa admits, bringing her arms up tight across her middle as if she could keep herself together by sheer force of will. She bows at the waist, overcome. She’s so tired. 

Xenophilius is there, holding her steady, keeping her from falling to the ground in her exhaustion. She allows his support, sinking into his arms, his heat and his reassurance, no matter how uncertain it truly is. His presence in her life since even before her husband’s death has been one of the few bright spots of recent years. She turns her head into his shoulder and breathes in his warmth. Everything in the Manor is always so frigid, except Xenophilius. He is always warm. 

“Shall we go visit again tomorrow?” he offers and Narcissa’s shoulders tense in his embrace. 

“It’s too painful. I ca—I can’t,” she stammers. 

“But Draco needs you, darling.” 

She’s shaking her head against the soft velvet of his robes, hating herself more and more. “It’s been two years. He doesn’t even know me anymore.” 

“But surely you—”

“I can’t!” she cries into the crushed velvet. She quiets herself, hides under his chin. “I can’t.” 

“Whatever you wish,” Xenophilius consoles, petting her hair and holding her close. “We’ll get through this together, my love. We will.” 

All Narcissa can do is cry. 

. . .   
. . . 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are love. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know how to quantify the warning for what's below. Perhaps: mild gore combined with sexual content

* * *

. . . 

Hermione waits at the threshold, ear pressed against the door, listening to Luna sing Draco to sleep. She’ll need to ask Luna about this bewildering ability of hers to influence Veela. Hermione can recall several pieces of Luna’s from The Quibbler on Veela that she researched thoroughly, but Hermione has always taken Luna’s writing with a grain of salt. She’s brilliant and imaginative, can weave a wonderful, wild tale and lace it all together with astounding prose, but as for the reliability of her words, Hermione has never been fully convinced. Hearing Luna soothe Draco with such unwavering ease has her questioning her long-held prejudices. Perhaps it’s time for Hermione to start putting more stock in her partner’s chosen profession.

She steps back from the door, biting her lip, feeling horribly guilty. She’s alone in the hallway, Harry has already collapsed on his bed for the evening. 

Once they had gotten Draco safely inside, they wasted no time warding the house. Luna wove several charms into those wards to help Draco remain calm and stable throughout the night in the spare room they’d set up for him. 

Looking over her shoulder to the pendulum wall clock softly swinging back and forth in its gilded box, Hermione laments what little night they have left. By the time they’d all gathered in the kitchen, seen to Harry’s awful bite wound, admonished Draco for administering said bite wound, scrambled a few eggs for supper, and figured out a place to keep Draco, it’d just turn 2. 

Luna slips out the door, a finger to her lips. 

“He’s asleep,” she whispers and Hermione nods, taking her hand in hers. 

“How’s Harry?” Luna asks quietly, kissing Hermione’s wrist then wrapping an arm about her waist. 

“Out cold. I don’t blame him.” 

“Yes, it has been a rather adventurous day.”

“I’m exhausted,” Hermione sighs, leaning heavily on Luna. 

“Oh, well then what I had planned can wait till morning, I suppose.” 

“What did you have planned?” Hermione asks, instantly more alert. 

Luna steps in front of Hermione with a sly smile, pulling at the silk tie holding her robe in place. It slips open easily, revealing the bare skin beneath. Luna’s eyes are cast downward, staring at the soft triangle of light blue fabric covering the apex of Hermione’s thighs. Hermione’s breath hitches, her heart suddenly racing. 

“Should we?” she whispers, looking back at Draco’s room. 

Luna doesn’t answer, but instead steps closer and moves her hand between Hermione’s legs, softly stroking. She brings her lips to the shell of Hermione’s ear and then bites down on the lobe, a gentle sting that causes Hermione’s knees to buckle. 

“Okay, alright,” Hermione squirms free and quickly opens their door, hurrying Luna inside, and throwing up a silencing charm as soon as she can reach her wand. 

. . . 

Harry’s eyes stutter open at the dull thud of a door closing. He looks around, feeling unmoored and uneasy, suffocating under the weight of the blankets. He’s up in an instant, reaching for the door. 

He stumbles from his bedroom, hand pressed against the bite on his neck, gasping. It’s too hot in his room, but the living room isn’t much better. The air is stagnant and thick, entirely too humid to breathe properly. He’s practically panting as he makes his way to the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, he pours himself a glass of water and gulps it down, spilling most of it over his throat and chest. The rivulets run into the dressing of the bite and he hisses at the sting, pressing his hand once again to the bloodied bandage. The feel of the gauze is like sandpaper dragging over his hypersensitive skin. 

With blunt fingertips, he rips off the sodden bandage and tosses it into the sink. It lands with a sickening thwack against the white porcelain, vibrant with fresh blood. Harry blinks at it bleary-eyed, wondering why he’s still bleeding. Hermione healed it, didn’t she? He can’t remember now.

He refills his water glass two more times, chasing a thirst he can’t satisfy. He’s only in his pants, yet he’s sweltering from the heat radiating off his own skin. He can feel the wetness on the back of his neck, soaking into his hair. 

Grabbing a stray pen off the countertop strewn with collection samples and drying herbs, he twists his hair up into a bun atop his head, feeling too overheated with it lying over his shoulders. He runs his arm across his forehead; his skin is searing. 

The balcony doors swim into his vision and he shuffles over to them, drunk from the heat. They open without warning, magicked by either himself or some other unknown force, but he’s grateful for the blast of cool sea mist that washes over him as he steps out onto the landing. He breathes in deep gulps of salt air, revelling in the high winds coming off the water. In the distance there’s a storm cloud rolling in; Harry can see the forks of lightning curling within its depths, sending shocks of purple light out across the velvet veil of the nighttime sky. 

He finds the railing and leans heavily onto it with his forearms, allowing the relief of fresh air to soothe his feverish skin. He looks out over the water, letting the swirling clouds and the electrical storm hypnotise him into a lulled sense of normalcy. None of today had been normal. And what Harry feels right now, the prickling sweat on his skin, the shivers running up and down his spine, is definitely not normal. He should be more alarmed at what’s happening to him, but he’s too exhausted to bother. 

Soon, his attention is pulled away from the flashes of light on the horizon and down to the unmistakable shape and breadth of Draco’s wings out on the jetty. 

Harry lifts his head ever so slightly, wondering why Draco is not in his room, why the wards they’d placed on his door and the house didn’t work. Harry had checked them himself before he’d turned in for the night, and they were strong, secure. 

Too startled to look away, Harry watches as Draco sinks to his knees on the rocks in a single, fluid motion, as if he were nothing more than a feather floating to the ground on a breeze. Harry’s brows furrow, feeling sluggish with fever and unable to truly react the way he should. Harry should be doing something, saying something to make Draco come back. 

He rubs at his eyes, the heavy blanket of sleep taking its hold on him, despite needing to keep watch over Draco. He stumbles back, his knees coming into contact with something behind him, and bends, landing heavily on the chaise lounge, melting into the cushions. He tries to keep Draco in his line of sight but he’s suddenly overcome with exhaustion and, without warning, his lids fall shut. The roar of the wind and the crash of the sea below all fades to black.

. . . 

Harry blinks and he’s on the jetty, feeling jittery, like a live-wire poking free of its socket. He shouldn’t be out here, he knows, but the tension in his shoulders is lessening with every inhale of the salt air and the rumbling in his gut has settled into a mellow tumble. He presses a hand hard against his abdomen, feeling the whirling within, like the storm cloud on the horizon. He’s shaky in a way he hasn’t felt in years and needy with an urge he can’t overcome. He had to escape the house, the smells of those terrible humans, and the oppressive heat.

So much heat. 

White light strikes the water and his head snaps up, revelling at the vibration it sends through his bones. He’s free. Blessedly free and for the first time in years he’s breathing in fresh air and not the stagnant, humid press of ancient magic that constantly restricted his power and his instincts. 

Rolling his shoulders, he sinks to the ground, fluid and smooth, bringing his palms into contact with the cool dirt and rocky pebbles. There’s blood there, fresh and fragrant. He brings his nose towards the reddened earth as strands of silver-blond hair fall across his vision and inhales.

_Yes_ , he thinks, brimming with satisfaction. That’s what he’s after, that scent. It’s a memory, a tantalising tingle on the edge of his mind, something close yet stubbornly elusive. To have it within his grasp now is intoxicating. He shifts his weight, sits back on his heels, throws his head back, and crows. He runs his hands up and down in his thighs, curiously not minding that their normal muscled, and dark brown, and covered in thick hair appearance has now shifted to long, and sinuous, and pale as bone against the damp moss of the jetty. 

That is the last contradictory thought Harry has before his instincts take over. He allows his body to move, slow and serpentine, his wings stretching and contracting with every roll of his hips. There’s a want, a need, bubbling inside him. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt such a carnal craving. Without conscious thought, he brings his inky black hand up to his mouth and spits.

The warm slick slides down his palm and, not willing to waste it, he grips himself where he’s hard and needy between his legs, careful to fold the long line of his nails over his fist. The heat of his fingers shocks him compared to his cooling spit and he gasps out into the night. The relief at touching himself is short-lived, he needs more. He tosses his head back on a cry, speeding up the rhythm of his hand, seeking a sensation he can’t quite name. 

Lightning forks across the sky over him and he breathes out at the shock of it, as if its charge had somehow electrified his blood from within. He falls forward on one taloned-hand, panting into the dirt, the need inside him building with every desperate drag of his palm over his aching prick. There, just underneath him, is the ripe scent of blood he sought earlier. He looks down at it, grinning with all his teeth as he watches a pearlescent drop of liquid release from the tip of his swollen cockhead, landing on the reddened earth. The combination sizzles, releasing a plume of silken smoke that he eagerly inhales. 

“Fuck,” he curses, drunk with it. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, his voice box not used to being utilised. Another surge of lightning touches down over the water, drawing his attention, and he arches with the pleasure it sends through him, his wings stretching out wide.

There’s a presence nearby. He’s felt him all this time, has known exactly where he’s sat on the balcony above him, but now he can smell him, smell his arousal and his need for release, a scent much stronger than his fever. He squeezes his cock, pulling a harsh gasp from his throat. The tide’s coming in, the water surging along with the delicious build-up of tension between his legs. Grinning, he closes his eyes and concentrates on who’s behind him, thrilled at the knowledge that he’s not alone, even if his voyeur is still too far away to claim. 

Then he remembers the bite. 

Pushing up from the ground, he brings his left hand to the sensitive skin of his neck, applies pressure, and hears a responding hiss on the wind. His opposite hand speeds up on his cock, so close to climax his toes are curling with the need to finish. He presses again, and this time, it’s a moan that echoes out across the water. That moan reverberates all along his skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. Another flash of light, another moan, and with a strangled cry, he comes. 

He collapses after his release, landing sideways, cushioned by the curve of his wing. He lies there, heart racing and shivering with aftershocks as the sky continues to ripple with lightning above and the waves sound out a cacophonous yet soothing rhythm all around him. His vision begins to swim and he lets his heavy head fall to the side, blinking slowly. Only then does he see it, there, just ahead of him, the pool of his come mingling with the blood on the rocks. 

. . .

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y'all Monday! Comments are <3


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